Cause and Effect
by PrincessAiryMtn
Summary: Enjolras is making independent decisions, which threatens his friendships and could have serious consequences for their cause. Modern AU/OC
1. Chapter 1

"That's all you're going to have?"

Enjolras ignored the question, adding milk to his bran flakes.

"Seriously. Enjolras." Combeferre's voice adopted a rare yet stern urgency. Enjolras slammed his spoon into the bowl and turned to his best friend. Combeferre continued. "Is that all you've had today?"

"I'm fine," Enjolras glared at Combeferre. His eyes were like ice, catching Combeferre's breath in his throat. Enjolras was known for his quick temper, and while Combeferre had definitely seen that look before, he was rarely at the receiving end.

Enjolras turned away from his friend. His back was tense and Combeferre knew that Enjolras had zoned out. Combeferre hated this withdrawn and angry state. Enjolras and Combeferre were ordinarily inseparable. They were more than friends; rather, each considered the other a brother.

Usually, Enjolras would come to Combeferre to calm himself. Combeferre's patient logic had the unique ability to relax his friend's tense brow and light a smile in his serious eyes.

_Usually_. Combeferre frowned but was distracted by the flailing form that stumbled into the kitchen.

"'Ferre! Skipping out on the party?" The sloppy man straightened himself when he saw the man hunched over the table. His lips stretched into a smile and he shook his bottle towards him. "Hey, hey! Apollo's back!"

He joined the blond man at the table, despite Combeferre's subtle attempts to stop him. "Where've you been, Apollo?"

Enjolras ignored him.

Combeferre cleared his throat. "Grantaire, leave him be. Let's just go back to the others."

Unfortunately for the three men, Grantaire was too drunk to catch the serious undertones in Combeferre's voice. Grantaire tipped his head back, laughing and splashing beer over the tabletop. His dark curls spilled over the back of the chair as he slipped lower into the chair.

"This is a sight," he slurred. "A god fraterrrr . . . frat- uh . . ." Grantaire took another swig of his bottle and tried again. "Not used to seeing the _great_ Apollo . . . doing something so human." He rolled his head to address Combeferre. "Never see _him_ eat." He directed his attention back to Enjolras. "And you choose – what? Cereal? What is that shit? If you're gonna pour the milk, then put it on some good shit. Put it on some Lucky Charms." Laughing again, he raised his arm heavily and slapped his hand across Enjolras' back.

The contact snapped Enjolras into action. He was suddenly on his feet.

"Fuck off."

Enjolras' eyes had lost the icy coldness that had met Combeferre's before. Now they were like fire. Enjolras hulked over the table, his face inches from Grantaire's. His eyes flashed violently while his lips disappeared into a tight line. His face was red and his chest expanded and contracted heavily. Grantaire was the antithesis of Combeferre's cool effect on Enjolras. He easily irritated the blond – practically daily, but this was different.

"Enjolras –" Combeferre began.

Grantaire interrupted, wide-eyed with Enjolras's proximity. "You are so _sexy_ –"

Enjolras grabbed Grantaire's collar and yanked him to his feet. His face morphed into a terrifying sneer. "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!" He shook the drunkard with each shout and punctuated it by throwing Grantaire away from him.

Grantaire flew backwards, tipping over the chair he had been sitting in and landing on his back. His bottle shattered, shooting triangles of glass across the floor. Grantaire's mouth gaped open as he tried to pull himself up. His movements were stupid and uncoordinated. Combeferre rushed to his side to help him up.

"Enjolras." Combeferre's voice was low. There was a question behind the evident disapproval.

"Don't even." Enjolras turned away from the two men, combing a hand through his sweaty curls. He turned back and pointed harshly at Grantaire. "I am through with him."

Combeferre balanced Grantaire against his shoulder. The drunken man, still dazed and stained with wet patches of beer, leaned his full weight against his friend. Combeferre could admit that Grantaire's habits were pathetic and often annoying but he also knew that there was something else irritating his best friend.

"This isn't about him. What's going on?"

Grantaire sloppily stepped forward. "Apollo."

That word was a trigger. Grantaire started using it the first time he had met Enjolras, blabbering on and on in his usual inebriated state about how perfectly the blond resembled the Greek god. Enjolras, who rejected personal attention unless he could use it to advance a social justice agenda, hated the nickname.

"I am so fucking done with you!" Enjolras lunged towards Grantaire. Combeferre pivoted to stand between the two men. "'Ferre, get out of my way. 'Ferre, I'm not fucking with you. Get out of my way." Enjolras pushed against his friend.

In these situations, Combeferre was as collected as Enjolras was impulsive. He stood two inches over his friend, but Enjolras was stronger. Yet he did not have to work hard to restrain his friend. Enjolras calmed against the bulk of his friend and stopped fighting against him. Yet his fury was far from abated. Enjolras took a step back from Combeferre and fixed a steely, unforgiving glare on Grantaire.

"You are useless. You are nothing. You live for nothing. You believe in nothing. You are nothing to me. You are nothing. Nobody likes you because you can't even be real with us. You're drunk all of the time. You don't contribute anything to the cause. You just screw everything up. You hear that? You screw everything up." Enjolras' voice had escalated until he was shouting at the top of his lungs. "Grantaire, get out."

Grantaire was numb. He did not seem to follow Enjolras' message until those final words. He started and his lips quivered. "You don't mean that?" His eyes frantically searched Enjolras' face for a sign of repentance. "Apollo…?"

He was hopelessly pathetic.

_Hopelessly drunk_, Combeferre thought.

Enjolras leaned towards him, an unfamiliar glint piercing the deep blue of his eyes. "I hate you."

"Enjolras!" The voice was softer and new. Enjolras spun towards the squeak and was met with a crowd of uncertain expressions. The kitchen was suddenly too full, every eye on him. He was suddenly aware of the pulse of the music from the other room, a techno heartbeat that raced his own.

The tense silence in the kitchen was broken by another squeak. "Enjolras?" It was a question this time, issued by Jehan. He stared beyond Enjolras with large, round eyes. Enjolras followed his desperate gaze to Grantaire.

Enjolras was immediately punctured with regret. Grantaire was huddled on the floor, whimpering into his arms. Combeferre knelt beside him, rubbing circles around his back. He gazed at Enjolras steadily; his face unreadable.

Enjolras froze for a moment, held captive by those eyes that were both empty and full, before bolting to his room. He pressed his back against the door, desperate for its solidness. Indistinct murmurs permeated the wood and cluttered his mind. He closed his eyes. The music had stopped. Sound was moving, concentrated further from his door. _Everyone must be leaving_. Decrescendo. Four voices. Two voices. Silence. The soprano crash of glass kissing glass. Enjolras closed his eyes. He could see Combeferre picking up bottles, aimlessly throwing them into the bin. One bottle at a time. Destruction was alleviation even for the most peaceful man. Silence was unbearable for confusion.

Enjolras slid down until his knees pressed into his chest. _Damn that Grantaire_. He was bitter. He hated the effect that man had on him.

Enjolras would be the first to admit that he had a temper. His lips twitched into a wry smile. Combeferre always told him that he was too passionate not to be hot-headed. Enjolras was used to yelling and arguing and turning bright shades of red. He was not used to completely losing himself to anger. He had a temper, but he knew how to control it.

Enjolras held his palms in front of his face. He was trembling. He had completely lost it – and in front of _everybody_. That was the worst part. He was the leader, and now his credibility was threatened.

His stomach twisted sharply. No. That was not the worst part. Grantaire's face flashed into his mind. _That _was the worst part.

Enjolras was a powerful speaker. Combeferre often told him that words were his "superpower". He knew how to use them. He had debated innumerable peers and professors and professionals on every topic for which he had a stance, which was most of them. He had left many of them defeated. Humiliated. Crushed.

This was different. Grantaire was . . . Enjolras struggled for the term.

_Hurt._

_Bzzzzzz_. His pocket vibrated dully, yanking him from his thoughts. Enjolras pulled his phone out and checked the screen. His breath hitched, and he hesitated before opening the message:

_You in?_

Enjolras slowly released his breath. His fingers stalled, idly trembling over the screen. The phone buzzed again:

_Got to know now. You in?_

Combeferre was going to kill him. Enjolras knew that to be a fact. And not just because of what he was seriously considering doing, but because – for the first time – Enjolras was going to make a significant decision for the group without consulting both him and Courfeyrac.

Enjolras opened the next message automatically:

_ We need you._

Enjolras' fingers clumsily danced across the screen:

_We're in._

"Send," he whispered. His fingers obeyed the command. He closed his eyes and tilted his head back against the door, sliding the phone across the floor, away from him.

Combeferre did not know how long he had been staring at the closed door. His vigil was interrupted only by the music emanating from the counter. He checked his phone's screen: Courfeyrac.

"Hey," he answered wearily.

"We're back."

"How's he doing?"

Combeferre could hear the smile stretching across Courfeyrac's face through the phone. "Well, he's currently puking his guts out. Jehan's totally freaking out and throwing flower petals at him. I have no idea why. Wish you could see it." Courfeyrac paused. "Everything's back to normal."

Combeferre ignored the question inherent in those last words. "Sorry your party was ruined."

Courfeyrac laughed. "No surprise there. Seriously, though. I think I am seriously going to have to move in with you guys to teach you both how to have some fun."

"You'll just become as boring as us," Combeferre smiled. "Call me if you need any help over there." Combeferre could not stifle his smile as he ended the call; Courfeyrac was able to lighten any situation.

Combeferre stretched, yawning. He should really take the opportunity to spend at least an hour studying. Midterms were a week away and he had been spending a lot of time lately helping Enjolras organize several rallies to protest rising tuition and cuts to various social protection programs.

He frowned at the table, where Enjolras' bowl sat, forgotten. He picked it up and carried it to the sink. It was full: bloated, pale flakes sunk under a cloudy pool of milk. Again, Combeferre lost himself in thought.

He knew his best friend. Even when Enjolras retreated into himself, when he was distant, Combeferre could read him. And he knew: Enjolras was hiding _something_.


	2. Chapter 2

"Hold up. This is dumb." Feuilly waved the posters that Enjolras had handed out. "Another recruitment poster?"

"Hey! I worked hard on those," Grantaire whined. He clumsily reached for the stack in Feuilly's hands, but almost fell out of his chair instead. Even when Grantaire was sober, he was helplessly uncoordinated.

"They're beautiful," Jehan piped up. Grantaire shot him a toothy grin, grateful for the praise.

Feuilly ignored the exchange. "Enjolras, it's the middle of the semester. People know who we are. We need to start pushing more issues."

"Yeah! And why don't we start by addressing the wildly unfair dry campus policy?" Grantaire slammed a fist against the table. "I'm 19! All I want is some beer. I mean, this sounds like a case of discrimination to me. And classism! I can't afford to live off campus, so I lose my right to booze? What do you say, boys?"

"Lose your right to booze," Bossuet mused, laughing. The group could not keep from laughing with him. Bossuet's nature was jovial and his laugh inviting.

"Looks like we have our catchphrase!" Courfeyrac added.

Grantaire reached over to give him a high five. "Hell yeah! What do you say, Apollo?"

Enjolras narrowed his eyes at his friends. He was honestly thankful for them. Enjolras' first several weeks at the university had been disheartening. Enjolras had been eager for the intellectual environment, excited to meet peers who matched his passion and drive for changing the world. Instead, he found his classmates to be shallow: cheating the readings, napping during lectures, vying for extra credit, and engaging in debate only to determine who had the greater hangover. Enjolras could see their potential; he knew that they could bring about incredible change, but their minds had blinders. The opportunity to grow and refine in class was ignored just as the potential for a future of purposeful service was overlooked.

He had met Combeferre by chance. Early to class one morning, Enjolras had settled in the hallway to catch up on his reading. He was soon distracted by an excited exchange in the office across the hall. Through the crack in the doorway, Enjolras could see a student gesturing wildly. His entire body was involved in the conversation. He sat at the edge of the seat, his torso stretched forward, as if his thoughts were fighting his body to escape faster than he could speak. Every few seconds, the student slid his glasses up to the bridge of his nose in a movement that suggested habit. Behind the glass, his eyes were bright and alert, alive. Enjolras strained to hear the conversation but the sounds that reached him were merely inflated murmurs. He hesitated before scooting across the floor and leaning his head toward the doorway.

To his dismay, he only caught several pleasantries of departure. He scowled, but before he could move back, a sharp pain shot through his ankle. The student from the office looked down. His face melted into a bemused smile as he took in the other student's deepened scowl.

"I apologize. Didn't notice you down there." He held out a hand, but Enjolras ignored the hand and pushed himself up.

Enjolras frowned. "You're rather excitable." His tone was flatly accusatory.

The other student raised his eyebrows imperceptibly. His response was cool and even: "You're rather curious."

The two had instantly become friends. They complimented, even balanced, each other. Enjolras was motivated by Combeferre's calm intellect while Combeferre was inspired by Enjolras' deep passion. Together, they had founded a student social justice organization, Les Amis de l'ABC. It had completed Enjolras. The group had collected a diverse band of students. Although they did not always emulate Enjolras' severe zeal, each was devoted to the same beliefs and eager to affect a change in the systems they disdained – aside from Grantaire, who really only came to the meetings for the company. And Enjolras.

Usually, Enjolras could suppress his irritation with his friends. He knew that he took everything more seriously than them; his confidence in the surety of their beliefs allowed him to overlook their collective silliness during meetings. However, over the past few weeks, Enjolras had been under more stress than usual. He had never felt so overwhelmed.

Enjolras had never figured out how to ask for help, but he had also never felt so out of control. Enjolras was a constant whirlwind of activity. His days belonged to his professors, to the Amis, to his friends; the nights belonged to him. Night was both his sanctuary and his hell. Against the stillness of the night, Enjolras' mind roamed free, like a rogue planet spinning senseless.

_At least I'll figure this all out tonight,_ Enjolras thought. He took a deep breath. _And everything will be back to normal._

He pressed his fingers to his temples, never breaking the steady glare that he had fixed on Grantaire. "Can we try to be serious," he spat. His friends settled again, hiding their smiles knowingly.

"Feuilly has a point, Enjolras." Combeferre had been watching his friend carefully. Since the past weekend, Enjolras seemed off. He had spent much of the first part of the week locked away in his room or holed in a booth at the Musain. Enjolras often sought isolation, but Combeferre could not shake the suspicion that Enjolras was avoiding him. "You did a lot of work last week to collect information about the tuition hike," he added gently.

Enjolras glanced at his watch. "You're right." The effect those words had on the group escaped the speaker; they were foreign coming from Enjolras. "Let's meet again Friday afternoon. I just wasn't able to get everything that we need yet. I'll have what we need then. For now, let's just get these posters out."

The group dispersed, collecting in small groups around the cafe. Enjolras raked his papers into sloppy piles, shoving them roughly into his bag.

"Going somewhere?" Combeferre watched Enjolras' rushed actions curiously. They always spent the evenings after meetings together in the café, working on homework and planning for the Amis.

Enjolras avoided his gaze. "Meeting some potential members."

Combeferre was surprised. This was the kind of news that they shared with each other. Enjolras was the unspoken leader of the Amis, but he always met with Combeferre and Courfeyrac regarding changes for the group. Combeferre fought to keep his voice neutral. "Who?"

Enjolras flashed a tight smile at his friend. "They're promising."

Combeferre frowned at Enjolras' departing figure. Courfeyrac slid into the chair next to him. "Did we piss him off that much?"

Combeferre hesitated. Though well-intentioned, Courfeyrac had the habit of overreacting and had, on more than one occasion, caused Enjolras to retreat further into himself, although it never took too long for Enjolras to forgive him. "Something's going on with him." He shook his head. "Don't worry about it, though. I'll drag it out of him tonight."

"Typical angsty Enjolras," Courfeyrac laughed. "Anyway, we're going out tonight. You're coming."

"I can't. I have studying –"

"We all have studying!" Courfeyrac swept his arm dramatically at the rest of the room. "That's why we're going to the bar!"

"I have to talk to Enjolras."

Courfeyrac's smile fell and he dropped his voice. His eyes search Combeferre's intently. "What's really going on?"

"I'm not sure," he admitted reluctantly. "But don't let it keep you from having fun. You know how Enjolras is. I'm sure it's nothing. I'll talk to him and update you tomorrow."

Courfeyrac reached across the table and squeezed Combeferre's hand. His eyes shone with a pained sympathy. "Don't let him keep you up too late."


	3. Chapter 3

Enjolras scowled at his phone's screen and then back at the darkening street. _2241_, he confirmed. He had memorized the address the first time he had seen it, but it was not there. He frowned at the building in front of him. 2239. The last building on the street.

Soft footsteps echoed behind him, breaking Enjolras' string of thought. He spun around sharply. A young man was steadily walking towards him. Though his head was ducked, Enjolras could see that his gaze was unwaveringly fixed on him. The man stopped a few feet away him. Enjolras studied him; he was thin. His light eyes were like pools of silver, exaggerated by the paleness of his skin and the severity of his shaved head. His dark lips curled into an arrogant smirk; he was studying Enjolras with the same intensity.

"Enjolras." It was not a question. "Albin. Come with me." Albin turned and started for the dead-end of the street. Enjolras suppressed the creeping reserve that gripped him coldly and followed.

Albin scaled the fence at the end of the street with an elegant contortion of his body. Enjolras followed just as fluidly, struggling to match the lengthening strides ahead of him. Albin never looked behind him. Power lines hissed above them as they wove through ugly shrubs that grabbed at loose fabric and tall grasses that whistled softly as they parted for the boys. This strange suburban wilderness pierced Enjolras with empty aches of abandonment and loneliness. In the dullness of twilight, the landscape was overpowering and terrible.

_A metaphor_, Enjolras decided. He had given up trying to map the route. Albin was not circling but even the direct path that they were following was unclear in its monotony. Instead, he began to compose his metaphor. _France is this wasteland. The weak, the repressed, the underrepresented reach out with stunted and hideous arms to the powerful. Their fingers snag, grasp, but they are shaken off. Ignored. Forgotten. A mere impediment to the self-serving platforms of the – _

Albin suddenly turned, flashing a crooked grin at Enjolras. "Sorry for the terrain." He motioned to the hems of Enjolras' pants, which were littered with burs and thorns. "We can't be too careful. Anyway, we're here." He motioned to a small shack. It was a solid block, a bleak square against the dimness of the night. Albin beat a pattern against the door. The sounds of his fists against the metal sheet hung in the air, a dissonant melody.

The door swung open and, with it, a cacophony and flood of light.

"Finally!" A short girl pouted at the two boys. Her face was round and framed with wisps of hair escaping from the dark burst of curls secured behind her ears. She looked past Albin and surveyed Enjolras with wide eyes. "Oh, he's cute!" She wiggled her fingers at Enjolras. "Come in! Come in! We're just getting started!"

As Enjolras stepped into the room, she slipped an arm through his and dragged him across the shack. It was nothing more than worn wooden planks nailed together over a surface of packed dirt. A small fire blazed in a fire pit dug in the center of the floor, providing most of the light. Enjolras shot a glance to the ceiling; a hole mirrored the pit in the floor where black smoke lazily disappeared into the night. Against the walls was a menagerie of young men and women slumped in a cluttered collection of rusting metal folding stools, chipped wooden Windsors missing spindles, and even a torn and stained armchair. They did not seem to notice the new addition to the shack. Enjolras stiffened. Although the smoke from the fire burned in his nostrils, he caught a hint of another barely masked scent. _Potheads,_ he thought disgustedly.

The girl pushed Enjolras into a chair against the back wall and knelt beside him, chattering excitedly. "We are so glad you finally decided to come. We've been _dying _to get you here. You're pretty much a celebrity. You're probably wondering who these fools are." She pointed around the shack, rapidly listing names with each redirection of her finger. "Fulbert. He's a sweet kid. Really devoted. Bea. She barely ever comes. Hugues. He's fucking crazy, but a good guy to have around. Marin. He's always high. I've never seen him not high. I don't actually think he's ever not been high. Nicolas. Wouldn't be able to do anything without him. Vivien. I don't know how he knows who he knows, but I don't care. He comes in handy. Clair, over there. He's a good guy to have around, too. One of our fighters. And you met Albin. Kinda creepy, but he's one of the best." She spun around so her face was inches from Enjolras'. "And I'm Syleen." She pressed Enjolras' hand gently. "Single, by the way."

She laughed loudly at the shock on his face, pulling away from him. "I know, I know. How could _I_ be single? "

He ignored her additional commentary. "_You're _Syleen?"

"Expecting someone taller?" She laughed again.

Enjolras did not answer immediately. "Someone a little more. . . serious."

Syleen slapped his leg playfully as she stood. "Ah, you really are all business! Don't worry. Outside of this little asylum, we are dead fucking serious. In the meantime, we're here. Why don't we get you to loosen up?"

"I don't smoke." Each word was punctuated with cold clarity. His face was immediately stone and his eyes flashed menacingly. The sudden change in his demeanor stopped Syleen. She was not frightened, which was the usual response to this thunder in his face, but she was inexplicably uneasy. She had heard that Enjolras was "different" from a plethora of sources. Some called him temperamental. Others called him wild. Still others simply labeled him crazy. Yet there was one impression that was common in each description: He was a maddening paradox. He was just as charming and captivating as he was distant and unapproachable. Warm and welcoming, untouchable and unreachable. Beautiful but remote.

She frowned. There was a wall between them. It had been there before she had even opened the door, but she had to slam straight into it to see it.

She would have to be more careful; they needed him.

"Attention, _garces_." Syleen faced the rest of the room, clapping her hands together and stretching her small frame to its full height. "First order of business, let's welcome our newest: The mighty, the fearless, the _gorgeous_ Enjolras of the famed Amis de l'ABC!" The shack erupted into clumsy applause and catcalls as Syleen winked. Enjolras nodded as a wave of blurry faces appraised him through the smoke. His face still tense, he focused on matching names to the curious stares. "Shit's going down with him on our side." She threw him another brilliant smile before turning back to the group.

She launched into a passionate review of a recent renewable energy plan that Hollande had rejected. Enjolras did not take his eyes from her as she talked.

She had emailed Enjolras at the end of the previous semester. She introduced herself as the president of the _Croisade de la Justice._ Enjolras recognized the name immediately, though he did not know how. He had ignored the email; his activism on campus resulted in many requests that he did not have the time to pursue. He was already too busy with the Amis and classes. He soon forgot about the email.

Then, over the past three weeks, Enjolras received daily emails from Syleen. Her persistence caught his attention. One evening, after a meeting, he had typed the group's name into a search engine. A list of headlines appeared immediately: "Seven Injured at _Croisade de la Justice_ Orientation Demonstration", "Students Trash Campus for Recycling Awareness", "Two Arrested at _Croisade de la Justice Protest_." Enjolras read through the articles hungrily. He had spent hours researching the group, but could not find much. All he could find on the environmental activist group were the primarily negative articles detailing the damages they had caused. Intrigued, he had finally replied with his number and a list of questions. She had responded with a single text: _You in?_

He did not know what he had expected, but she was definitely not it. She circled the fire pit gracefully; her movements were crisp and commanding but light. The group leaned toward her, like flowers reaching to the sun, nodding with her. The flames danced against the deep mud of her eyes; they were bright with joy. Her voice was strong yet had an undertone of laughter. Enjolras could not match the spark in front of him with the inferno he had encountered in the articles.

Syleen was currently engaged in a heated description of the exploitation of the South American rainforests. Enjolras checked his watch; he had been listening for nearly half an hour. He smiled wryly; his friends would be impressed that he held out this long.

"I didn't think I came for a lecture about trees." Syleen spun towards the interruption. A flash of irritation was quickly replaced with a sweet smile.

"You want to know why you're here. I'm sorry that we're boring you."

Enjolras smiled blankly in response to her sarcasm. "Quite the contrary. I've actually been biting my lip to keep from jumping in." Truthfully, he had been dissecting her arguments in his mind. Ordinarily, he would not be so reserved, but he was too curious about her outreach and did not want to ruin this – whatever "this" was – before it started. According to his friends, Enjolras lacked the social skills to end a debate with a handshake. He was actually impressed with himself for being so reticent; it truly had taken an enormous effort on his part.

Syleen softened. "Well, this really wasn't supposed to be a conventional meeting. I just got started, and there is just so much going on –" She cut herself off. "Anyway, you're right. We've heard a lot about your group. You're pretty extraordinary. Caught our attention, anyway." A murmur of assent burst from the rest of the group.

"So what do you want?" Enjolras frowned impatiently.

"Damn! So serious." Syleen fell silent, staring into the fire.

"We need some help." The voice came from the other side of the fire. Nicolas. "We have something planned, but we need manpower."

Syleen turned back to Enjolras. "We got something big. We just really can't do this alone." She paused. "We know that you're pretty outspoken against all of the bullshit the university feeds us. What we have would totally ruin them."

"That's pretty ambiguous," he replied.

"This is huge," Albin added. "We're not just going to tell you what we know."

Enjolras folded his arms across his chest. "So you expect us to just join you blindly?"

"No," Syleen bit her lip. "Look, you don't know much about us. Well, you've probably heard of us. We get a lot of press."

"Bad press," Nicolas interjected.

Syleen began again. "We don't pride ourselves on being secretive. It's just easier."

"Hard to be public when everyone's out to stop you," Nicolas added.

Syleen was desperate. "Before we fill you in on what we have, we want you to understand who we are. What we do and why we do it."

Enjolras laughed bitterly, checking his watch conspicuously. "How long is that going to take?"

The group laughed. Enjolras tensed; they were laughing at him. Clair stood. "We don't define ourselves with words. We are action."

"We have a mission tomorrow night. Join us," Syleen pleaded. "If you like it, we can talk about taking this partnership further. We just need to be sure that you're okay with how we operate before you commit."

"Mission?" Enjolras was suspicious but his curiosity was peaked. He was a staunch opponent of the university administration; the Amis had had many run-ins with it. While Syleen's group was annoyingly ambiguous, he firmly believed that they had something, and he wanted to know what it was.

"It'll be fun," Albin sneered.

"And only slightly illegal." Syleen winked at Enjolras. "You in?"


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: I apologize for the authorial intrusion; still trying to figure this fanfiction thing out. Just wanted to thank you for reading/following/"favoriting" and especially for the encouraging comments! Your support is truly what is keeping me motivated to write!**

"Uunnnngghhh." Courfeyrac rolled toward his phone, rubbing a hand roughly over his eyes. His head pounded unmercifully. "Speak," he answered. "But not too loudly." He squinted. Why was it so _damn_ bright?

"Have you seen Enjolras?"

"'Ferre!" Courfeyrac grinned. "You have me saying it again. You're the smart one. Last night was fucking ridiculous."

"Later, Courfeyrac. Seriously. Have you seen Enjolras?"

"Naw."

Combeferre paused. "He wasn't in class?"

Courfeyrac laughed. "_I _wasn't in class, 'Ferre! Just woke up. Wanna come make me bacon? _Shit_!" The dial tone grated harshly in his ear. He threw the phone across the room and disappeared under his comforter with a groan.

By the time Enjolras had returned the previous night, Combeferre was asleep. Enjolras had spent the night pacing, unable to rest. Syleen had been frustratingly discreet about the planned mission. Enjolras could not help feeling uneasy. He understood the necessity of discretion, but was usually on the other side of it. None of his appeals or threats had moved the group. Syleen was clear: If Enjolras was not willing to play by their rules, then they did not want him. He could never name the bitter ache that consumed him in these rare moments when control was beyond his grasp; it was a deep and unfamiliar vulnerability.

_Croisade de la Justice_. He did not trust them but he needed them; they held something that he wanted, a secret that was brilliant beneath the veil they stretched before his eyes. He struggled to understand the odd band. Syleen may be the voice of the group, but Albin was undisputedly the eye. Syleen was the quintessence of hopeful and cautious leadership just as Albin was jealous and suspicious surveillance. Each was omnipresent. Syleen: inconvenient and startling, the bright surprise of a sun shower; Albin: the shadow skulking always a half-step behind. Enjolras was guarded with Syleen, ulterior with Albin. He felt nothing but a hollow reserve for the rest of the group. He did not doubt their convictions, but, to him, they were an empty memory, a single body with several heads.

Enjolras spent the day in a fog, weaving fantastic indictments that ended with each fogyish administrator and professor slumped sadly in a cell with the flag of France waving defiantly out of reach beyond the stern bars. He had turned his phone off after his first class. It had flashed incessantly with missed calls and unopened texts, primarily from Combeferre. Enjolras buried his guilt. _I just need to get through tonight. Then I'll know what I need to know, and everything will be back to normal._

Albin was late that night. Not too late, but late enough to put Enjolras in a bad mood. When the car finally skidded to a stop, Enjolras stomped to it, slamming the door behind him. Albin grinned, amused with his passenger's irritation. "Good evening to you too, soldier!" He saluted obnoxiously.

Enjolras scowled ferociously in response, shutting Albin up for the remainder of the drive.

After nearly forty minutes, Albin turned the car lights off and turned down a side road. They passed through miles of farmland before Albin took another turn into a large complex of industrial buildings. Albin parked behind one and the boys got out, grimacing at the pungent odor that suddenly assaulted them.

"You made it!" Syleen skipped out of the shadows cast by one of the buildings, followed by the group from the shack.

"Where are we?" He asked.

Syleen smiled slyly. "What do you know about factory farms, Enjolras?"

"I know enough." Enjolras wrinkled his nose, fully recognizing the stench of animal waste. He hated factory farms as he hated every corporation that cornered the market, driven for profit instead of the honest nobility of labor.

"Drop the attitude." Syleen folded her arms and stared at him coldly. "I know you don't agree with everything we fight for. You think that what we believe is less important than what you and your buddies do. You think we're just a bunch of hippies, don't you? That we're wasting our efforts."

"I'm not denying the importance of the environment, and I'm not trying to diminish your beliefs. But there is a natural hierarchy of rights, and you're working from the wrong end. Until every man is free, no other injustice can be solved. Systems repress men, creating a damning pattern. Because men are repressed, they repress. Because men have no control over the forces above them, they turn to what is below them. Free man and only then will the world, including your trees and rivers, be free. Your efforts are not wasted; your motivations are just misplaced."

Syleen fumed at his response. "That is such a narrow understanding! Man deceives himself when he says that he controls the environment! He has no fundamental right to the earth. This is not a system of repression but abuse! You promise a utopia as long as each man feels autonomy, but you're blind. Systems and repression will always exist. Equality is abstract, but the Earth is real, Enjolras!"

"What you term 'abstract' is as real as the physical world. Ask any suffering man if slavery is real. Oppression, poverty, dehumanization – these are more tangible than the trees. The human soul knows a truer reality than the eye."

"Then what would you have us do? Ignore the threat of climate change? Stand silently while our forests are destroyed?" Syleen gestured to their surroundings. "Allow this injustice to continue uninhibited?"

Enjolras paused. He was losing her. He continued, more gently. "I despise this system as I despise all systems."

"Why?" She prompted.

"They undermine the integrity of capitalism."

"Do you know why we hate them?" Her voice trembled through angry tears. "Because millions of lives are subjected to unspeakable brutality. Every hour of their brief existences is torture – _literal_ torture – before they are mercilessly murdered. And why? Because it is convenient and cheap. This is not an economic injustice. This is a question of morality."

Enjolras could not agree with her assessment, but her urgency was compelling. She was overlooking the basic source of injustice, but he respected the burning passion shining in her eyes. Her argument mirrored the heart that Courfeyrac brought to the Amis; the similarity softened Enjolras. "So what are we doing here, then?"

The group, who had since been a mute audience, chuckled. "_Chicken Run_," Albin mused with a secret smile.

Syleen's smile brightened her face with her familiar youthful hopefulness, relieved that Enjolras was still willing to go through with it. She pointed to the building ahead of them. "There are literally thousands of chickens in there. We're going to set them free."

Enjolras stared at her in disbelief, eliciting another round of laughter. "You're kidding me."

Syleen wrapped her hand around his arm excitedly. "Think about it! This will be sensational! Front page news! Thousands of chickens roaming free – the way they should be!"

"They won't last long out there."

"We're not going to set them in the wild," Albin sneered. "We're just going to get them out of their cages. Get them running through the building."

"It'll be an absolute mess!" Syleen launched into a graphic description of how the mission was going to play out. Her words faded into a vision in Enjolras' mind. It was actually brilliant. He imagined the morning, stocky men squeezing fat chins, as if their fingers could knead sense into what was before them. The neat press of their suits was foreign in the dusty yard, even more unnatural against the frenzy of the fluttering, desperate bodies. The stench –

Oh, God, yes! The stench! The stench of dissent rising to choke the corporate monopoly. He couldn't care less about the thousands of timid hearts beating a countdown to salvation, but his own breast swelled with the prospect of the chaos that he could deliver to the economic despots.

He rubbed his hands together. "Let's do this."

"Put this on." Something flew through the air. Enjolras caught it; a ski mask. He pulled it over his head, grinning wildly.

The group huddled together; each figure an anonymous blot, fading into the night.

"Enjolras." The voice belonged to Nicolas. "You'll probably hate being left out of the action, but we're putting you on watch."

"We've been studying the layout for a while," Albin added. "We know how the cages are laid out, and we're familiar with the locks. It will go faster if you just let us do the dirty work."

"This time," Syleen cooed.

"Alright," Nicolas resumed. "Enjolras, you're on the west door. Hugues, you're on the east. Everyone else, we're sticking with our usual partners."

"Is there security?" Enjolras asked.

"If there was, they would have found us while you and Syleen were yapping at each other," Albin said.

"What about cameras? They've got to have some kind of security system."

"Yeah," Nicolas conceded. "They have cameras, which is another reason we're going to work fast."

"We'll be out before anyone could respond," Syleen assured him. "Besides, the cameras are really only to monitor the presence of wild prey. Nobody's watching the feed this late."

"Just remember to keep the chickens corralled in the building. If you leave the building, watch the doors." The smile in Nicolas' voice was apparent in his words. "Like Enjolras pointed out, we don't want our feathery friends turning into road kill."

Enjolras laughed easily with the group. They ran silently across the yard, falling automatically into pairs. Nicolas directed Hugues to the opposite side of the building. One of the members worked with the lock on the door. It clicked sharply and released. The pairs disappeared through the opening. Nicolas laid a hand on Enjolras' shoulder.

"Any trouble, just yell. Even with all the squawking, we'll be able to hear you. We can't afford to be arrested this time, so keep a sharp eye."

Enjolras nodded, and Nicolas entered the building, closing the door behind him. Enjolras leaned against it, surveying the dark property before him. The night was so silent he could hear the electric fizz of the camera above his head. He breathed in deeply. This felt so right. He knew that this was an inconvenience that would be corrected in the morning; the physical damage was limited. But it was a thorn in the side of standardized corporation. It was an embarrassing story. A weakening of the absolute grasp of the powerful. Enjolras paced, exhilarated with the potential of the moment. He had spent years speaking and organizing against corrupt authority; now he was acting against it. He was _doing _something.

He heard it first- a sickening _crack_. The force spun his body and he slammed against the door before collapsing. For a moment, the world around him stopped. He could hear nothing but the shuddering gasps racking his chest. He looked down, to where the ground should be, but he perceived only a dizzy black nothingness. He felt suspended, detached from reality, acutely aware of each atom of his body: his clawed fingers, trembling lips, heavy legs. A roaring heat suddenly burst across his forehead. The world around him lurched; he was being dragged to his feet. His arms hung limply, uselessly; all of his attention directed to the fire on his temple. He dimly felt a warm stickiness trickling down his cheek, then he was on the ground again, sprawled helplessly with a new ache stretching across his jaw. Another burst of pain exploded against his side. He could not contain a strangled cry of agony. He curled into himself reflexively while tears stung his eyes. Through the mist, he saw two dark figures fumbling near him.

"Go! Dammit! Get up! Run!" Enjolras knew that the commands were directed to him, but they did not make sense. He lay motionless, stunned with pain.

A hand shook his shoulder. Enjolras moaned. "Thank God you're alive." The voice was deeply sarcastic. Enjolras knew the voice but his mind was not working. Two arms pulled at his waist; Enjolras groaned in protest. The pain drove a fresh stream of hot tears to his eyes. "Shut the fuck up. I should leave you but Syleen would kill me." The other man secured his arms around Enjolras' shoulders and waist and propelled him forward. Every movement was excruciating. Enjolras bit his tongue to keep from whimpering, closing his eyes and allowing his companion to lead him.

The man pushed him roughly. Enjolras groaned as he fell against a firm cushion. He rubbed his hand over the fuzzy surface of the car seat. A distant engine squealed. He was flying. Then he lost consciousness.


	5. Chapter 5

"Enjolras?" He shifted and moaned with the burst of pain. "We're back. You need to get inside."

Enjolras opened his eyes and slowly sat up. They were parked in front of his apartment. He looked to the front of the car; Albin and Syleen stared back at him. "How do you know where I live?"

"Go inside," Syleen commanded.

Enjolras didn't move. "What happened?"

Syleen sighed, exasperated. She swiveled and stared wordlessly out of the front window.

"It was a bust," Albin responded quietly.

"It was _not,_" Syleen seethed.

"We got about a quarter of the cages open before we heard Hugues yelling. That's when I nearly tripped over your comatose ass. Seriously, man. Didn't we tell you to yell if you saw anything?"

"What happened to the others?" Enjolras ignored Albin's sarcasm.

"As far as we know, everyone's good. Except Hugues. He was arrested, but Vivien's working on getting him out."

"How?"

Syleen pursed her lips at Enjolras. "He _knows_ people. Now get the hell out. We need to separate."

Enjolras stepped out of the car, but held the door open. "You owe me some information."

Syleen nodded. "We'll be in touch." Enjolras waited until the car disappeared from his sight before starting for the door, reaching tentatively to the throbbing on his forehead. He realized that he was still wearing the ski mask and pulled it off. He looked at his hand; it was red with blood. He sighed and grimaced at the stairs ahead of him.

Combeferre had been studying for hours; he hoped his friends were doing the same. He briefly considered texting Courfeyrac, but decided against it. Courfeyrac had appointed him to be his study accountability partner after Combeferre had helped him pass his first year science course. It had required a gruesome all-nighter and about fourteen cups of espresso-spiked coffee, but the students each gained a new friend through the experience. Combeferre sighed. The likelihood that Courfeyrac was studying was slim, but Combeferre was also so sick of the intricacies of the nervous system that he knew Courfeyrac would easily be able to convince him to join in some non-academic shenanigans.

_Can't have that_, Courfeyrac resigned. He pushed his glasses up his nose and turned to the next diagram. The door opened behind him, followed by Enjolras' light footsteps.

"Where have you been?" When Enjolras did not answer, Combeferre turned impatiently. He jumped to his feet in shock. Enjolras' face was pale beneath thick streams of blood and dark blue bruises. His golden hair was unruly, the right side of his curls stained deep red. He held an arm against his side, breathing rapidly. Combeferre hurried to his side, leading him to the couch. He winced at the barely audible gasps Enjolras fought to keep in.

Combeferre collected a bowl of warm water, clean rags, and bandages. Enjolras sat still, letting his friend work on him. He closed his eyes, focusing solely on the warm water and Combeferre's gentle touch.

"Anywhere else?" Enjolras hesitated before pulling his shirt to reveal his side. Combeferre sighed loudly. Enjolras glanced down; he was bruised hideously, a collage of black and purple and yellow. Combeferre ran his fingers lightly over the bruise, checking for any breaks. Enjolras' face twisted tightly with the contact. Combeferre exhaled in relief. "No breaks. It will be tender for a while, though."

He sank in the chair opposite the couch, studying his friend. Despite the unsightly bruising along his jaw line and the gash etched above his brow, he was still handsome and commanding. Enjolras met his steady gaze.

"Going to tell me what's going on?" Combeferre asked quietly.

Enjolras wasn't ready for this. He needed to know everything first. Combeferre would not understand unless he had all of the facts.

He stood up. "'Ferre, I'm tired." Combeferre opened his mouth in protest, but Enjolras cut him off. "We'll talk later." His tone was final.

Combeferre blinked, caught off guard. Enjolras was never this stern with him. The stress of the week suddenly hit Combeferre. He was exhausted, overwhelmed with responsibility. Above all, Combeferre loved his friends. It had not taken him long to learn that Enjolras resisted comfort until he felt that he was ready for it; Combeferre respected this tendency because he knew that Enjolras would always eventually come to him. But now, for the first time, Combeferre doubted the inevitability of this pattern. He had never felt so distant from his best friend. He buried his face in his hands.

Combeferre was slumped in that chair, snoring softly, when Enjolras stole out of the apartment the next morning. Enjolras hesitated at the door, casting a guilty glance back at Combeferre. Enjolras knew that Combeferre was worried about him. _You'll figure this out today_, Enjolras told himself. _This will all end today. He'll understand._

Enjolras had woken to a text from Syleen, asking him to meet her in an hour. He ignored the nauseating pain shooting through his head and side and reached the coffee shop a half hour early. He ordered a black coffee, checking his watch obsessively. Syleen strolled in twenty minutes late. Her mouth fell open when she saw Enjolras' bruised face.

"Oh God," she exclaimed, falling into the chair across from him.

"Do you all have a rule against being punctual?" He growled.

"Did that happen last night?" Enjolras nodded stiffly. "Shit! And we thought Hugues got the worst of it."

"He got out, then?"

Syleen laughed. "Of course he did. Vivien's a professional. He can get us out of anything."

"Are you all students?" Enjolras asked innocently.

Syleen cleared her throat and pulled a folder out of her satchel. "Last night was a success, despite what Albin says. Did you see the article?"

"Why do you always do that?"

Syleen avoided his gaze. "What?"

"You never answer my questions."

Syleen peered at Enjolras through her lashes. He was angry. Again. She leaned across the table, dropping her voice to a soft murmur. "It's easier for everyone this way."

"I think I have a right to know," Enjolras responded coldly.

Syleen's eyes wandered to the gash above his eye. "Perhaps," she mused, falling into a thoughtful silence. She began again after a few moments. "Tell me what you have against the administration."

Enjolras shifted in his seat, irritated with the redirection of the conversation. "The university is an institution that exists to serve the students. It should be a beacon of progress." He shook his head, his voice growing stronger with distaste as he continued. "But the administration has actually become an impediment to progress. They do not respect the students. They are using us, strangling us into useless conformity and intellectual obedience."

Syleen followed his words carefully, watching him with wide eyes while he spoke. "You're certainly not afraid to voice your disapproval."

"It's our duty." Enjolras laughed derisively. "I can't tell you how many times they have tried to disband the Amis. They have introduced so many new rules and guidelines in response to what we've done. Last week, we had a hell of a time trying to get straight answers about the latest tuition hike."

"And then you take to the sidewalks with your signs and megaphones and chants," Syleen drawled.

Enjolras stiffened. "What are you saying?"

Syleen pressed her hands over Enjolras'. He slid his hand away and crossed his arms. His face darkened angrily. "Enjolras, how did you feel last night?"

"What do you mean?" His mind flickered back to the thrill of empowerment that he had experienced the night before. Syleen sighed; he was pushing her away again.

"Enjolras, there is only one way to achieve change." Her eyes gleamed with wild zeal. "It's never enough to just educate the masses. We have to fight for it, force it down the throats of those who try to keep to the status quo." She slid the folder across the table to him.

He searched her face questionably before opening the envelope and sifting through the contents. His eyes widened. "How did you get this?" He looked up at her. "Vivien," he said.

She grinned in affirmation. "We were looking for current energy usage stats, and then he found all of this."

Enjolras settled back, thumbing through the papers in disbelief. "What are we going to do with this?"

Syleen looked around the coffee shop furtively. "We'll tell you what we need you to do when the time comes. For now, get the Amis on board."

"More secrets?" Enjolras narrowed his eyes into icy slits.

"Enjolras, for this to work, I need you to trust me," Syleen pleaded.

"I don't trust you."

She smiled . "No, I suppose it's not fair for me to ask you to do that. But I do need you to trust that we know what we're doing."

Enjolras considered the pages before him thoughtfully. It was exactly what they needed. Syleen was right: This would ruin the administration, and he so desperately wanted to be a part of it. He thought again of the night before. Every bit of him craved to feel that adrenaline again.

"What should I tell them?" Enjolras asked, thinking about his friends. "They're going to want answers, too."

Syleen stood and moved next to Enjolras, placing her mouth near his ear. "Tell them that freedom comes with risk."


	6. Chapter 6

"Please tell me you weren't involved with this!" Enjolras started as a phone was shoved in front of his face. The screen displayed an article, headlined "Police Search For Student Vandals, Requesting Witnesses to Come Forward." Enjolras chuckled lightly and looked up at his friend. Combeferre glared at him in disbelief.

"'Ferre, I have stumbled upon the most amazing development," Enjolras began.

"Enjolras! How could you be so stupid?" Combeferre had not meant to yell, but his words attracted the rest of the students' attention. Combeferre shot a glance around the café before lowering his voice. "Enjolras, this is _illegal_."

"Only slightly illegal," Enjolras repeated Syleen's words, rubbing his jaw subconsciously.

"What? 'Slightly illegal'?" Combeferre sputtered, losing control of his volume again. He could not believe what he was hearing. "Enjolras! Legality is not relative! Something is either legal or illegal. There is no grey matter!"

"Sometimes the laws are grey, Combeferre," Enjolras returned.

"Breaking and entering is _not _grey, Enjolras! Vandalism is _not _grey!" Combeferre's lips trembled angrily as he searched for words.

Enjolras placed a hand on Combeferre's shoulder with a disarming smile. "Peace, friend." He turned to address the rest of the Amis, who had watched the argument incredulously. They had never seen their leaders argue before; they had definitely never seen Combeferre so angry. Combeferre fumed speechlessly behind Enjolras as he continued. "I need to talk to you all about something. Something big. I've had the opportunity to meet with new friends of ours, allies to our cause."

Enjolras paused to be sure that he had the full attention of the room. He was satisfied, although they were most likely still just experiencing the aftershocks of seeing an angry Combeferre.

"Our administration stands on a foundation of lies. We've suspected as much, but now we have the proof." Enjolras passed the documents from Syleen's folder to the Amis. He watched their faces as they read the documents hungrily.

"Are these real emails?" Courfeyrac asked, glancing at Enjolras excitedly.

"What do they say?" Jehan leaned over Courfeyrac's shoulder. He was the only one who had not received a document from the folder. Courfeyrac stood, earning a look of disapproval from the poet.

"It's a series of emails between the president and provost," Courfeyrac stated. "A professor has apparently developed a system that routes students' emails to them. There's a list of 'trigger' words, and if an email contains any of the words, they're routed. Hey! Cool! _Amis de l'ABC _is one of the trigger words! Hey, Enjolras! Your name is on this, too! Shit! We're all on this list!"

Bahorel looked up from his page. "They've been reading our emails?"

"And not just from our university-issued email addresses," Enjolras added. "Any email account that we access through the university's Internet system is available for their scrutiny."

"Ah, shit! We're about to be the Edward Snowdens of France!" The group laughed at Courfeyrac's goofy smile. Enjolras grinned triumphantly.

"Hey, listen to this!" Feuilly waved the papers in his hands to get his friends' attention. "They've been skimming scholarship funds, too. Listen to these figures! Over the past five years, private donors have given over eleven million Euros for student aid. However, only seven million of that sum was actually passed on to the scholarship foundation."

"What happened to the rest?" Jehan asked.

"I think I've got that," Combeferre called. He held up the papers in his hands. "Records of the administrative payroll. How much did you say was lost? Four million?" Feuilly nodded. "Here is your deficit. Over the past five years, an inflation of four million Euros – right into the pockets of the key administrators, including the president, provost, and scholarship foundation director."

"They've been dipping in the student budget, too," Joly added. "Denying funding to student groups."

"I have a record of books and other materials that the administration has banned the professors from teaching," Bahorel called.

Bossuet frowned. "I think I just have a grocery list . . ."

The students chatted excitedly among themselves, exchanging and re-reading the documents in a mix of astonished outrage and excitement.

Combeferre looked at Enjolras thoughtfully. "A pretty neat case against them," he said slowly. "Where did you get all of this?"

Enjolras' grin grew broader. "We can thank our newest allies: the _Croisade de la Justice_."

This final addition silenced the room.

Combeferre placed his document on the table. "Enjolras, we should take this to the ethics board."

"Have you not been listening, 'Ferre?" Enjolras glared at him angrily. "The ethics board is made up of the very people who have been acting unethically!"

"We cannot assume that our entire university body is guilty," Combeferre countered. "If we approach the board with these charges, then the administration will lose their hand. Enjolras, it's the procedure for student complaints."

"That would ruin everything! This information belongs to the entire student body and should not be buried in a stack of complaints." Enjolras argued. "Besides, we have no right to take this information anywhere without the consent of the _Croisade_. These belong to them, and I promised that we would work with them – not against them."

"Enjolras, this could destroy all of the work that we have done! If the administration connects us with the _Croisade_, the Amis is done," Combeferre yelled. "We could all be expelled."

"We have a responsibility to expose what the administration has been doing!"

"And you have the responsibility to talk to us before you add our names to outside efforts," Courfeyrac added.

Enjolras kicked his chair in frustration. "The administration's going to fuck us over even if we play by their rules. Don't you think the administration has access to the ethics board? Don't you think they have power there, too? The _Croisade_ is the only chance that we have."

"And what exactly does this chance entail?" Joly questioned.

Enjolras hesitated.

"You don't even know what they have planned?" Courfeyrac asked.

"Enjolras, the _Croisade _is a group of environmental terrorists!" Combeferre shouted. "They just want to make headlines. We're better than that!"

"What are we, Combeferre?" Enjolras shouted back. "What do we do? We hang posters and wave signs and talk, talk, talk! All your fucking civil disobedience shit! And what have we accomplished? Nothing, Combeferre! Nothing ever happens! This is our chance to actually make something happen!"

The door of the café suddenly flew open, slamming loudly against the wall. "I thought I heard Mom and Dad fighting," Grantaire slurred loudly. His face was flushed with intoxication. The Amis looked up at him grimly.

Unperturbed by the lack of reaction, Grantaire directed his cheeky grin to Enjolras, but it melted immediately. He rushed to Enjolras. "Who did this to you?" Enjolras glared silently, defiantly, back. "Enjolras! Who did this to you?" Grantaire reached a hand to Enjolras' face and tenderly traced a finger over his bruised jaw.

Enjolras pushed his arm away. "Doesn't matter."

"Like hell it doesn't matter! Enjolras!" His voice trembled.

"Drop it, R." Courfeyrac's voice drifted tiredly through the room. He had interrogated Enjolras thoroughly when he had first come into the café, but Enjolras had pointedly ignored him until he had left him alone. "He's not telling anyone what happened."

Grantaire ignored Courfeyrac and leaned across the table, his face inches from Combeferre's. "Did he tell you?" His voice was a deep growl. "I swear, Combeferre. I swear, tell me what happened to him." Combeferre stared back blankly; the pieces slowly coming together in his mind. Grantaire spun desperately back to the rest of the room.

"What? No one's going to tell R what happened?" The inebriated man stumbled towards his friends, panting wildly.

"You'd only go and fuck something up." Grantaire turned to Enjolras sharply, stricken by the steel in the voice. Enjolras grabbed Grantaire's arm roughly. His voice dropped; it was low and dangerous. "Stop pretending that any of this matters to you."

Grantaire's heart dropped and tears welled in his eyes. He tore away from Enjolras' grip. He felt as though he was melting under Enjolras' glare, but he could not look away. Enjolras' eyes were the clearest blue in these moments of anger. His top lip curled over his teeth, creating a menacing scowl. _I hate you_. Those three words repeated over and over in Grantaire's mind. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but turned and bolted from the room instead. Courfeyrac slipped after him while the rest of the Amis shifted uncomfortably in the tense silence.

Combeferre finally spoke, trying to calm Enjolras. "We share your indignation and we also want to see this resolved. But we have to tread carefully. These are serious allegations, and we want to be sure that this doesn't come back to hurt us needlessly. I don't know what they told you, but it's like you've been blinded to common sense, to how these things realistically play out." He traced a line across his own forehead, mirroring the cut above his friend's eye. "Surely last night was enough to show you that."

Enjolras stiffened. "Freedom comes with risk."

"I think I speak for us all when I say that we can't work with the _Croisade_," Combeferre said. "This isn't who we are." The group nodded in assent. "Enjolras, this isn't who _you_ are."

Enjolras glowered at his friends, but they avoided meeting his eyes. Finally, he collected the documents and stomped out, looking back only to shout: "The silent share the blame of the guilty!"


	7. Chapter 7

Enjolras walked the streets blindly. He had never been so infuriated or embarrassed. He felt attacked and betrayed. Combeferre . . . The name was followed with a string of curses. He was deeply hurt that his friends had abandoned him. _Who's abandoning who? _Enjolras tried to ignore that small voice, but his friends' faces flashed incessantly before him. Courfeyrac, mouth gaped in confused concentration. Combeferre, brow furrowed in worried thought. Enjolras felt a stab of guilt. Grantaire, again in tears.

Enjolras sank onto a bench, abruptly aware of the sharp ache in his side. He was not ready to forgive his friends, but he still trusted them.

He pulled out his phone and dialed Syleen. "I need to talk to you. Now."

A half hour later, he was situated in the coffee shop at which they had met earlier. Syleen wandered casually over to his table. "How's the face?" she asked playfully.

"Sit." Syleen wrinkled her brow but obeyed the brusque command.

"I need to know exactly what is going on or I'm out."

Syleen searched his eyes, trying to make sense of his tone. "Where do your friends stand?"

"Damn it, Syleen. I'm not playing your games anymore."

Syleen tapped her fingers anxiously. They needed Enjolras, but she was afraid to tell him too much. He must have talked to his friends; Albin predicted that they would screw with his resolve.

"We're organizing a protest."

Enjolras snorted contemptuously. "Could you be any broader?"

They stared at each other defiantly. Syleen broke first.

"Fine," she hissed. "Come with me."

Enjolras followed her to her car, sliding in wordlessly, ignoring her nervous attempts at small talk. Exasperated, she gave up. She finally parked in a grocery store parking lot, got out of the car and disappeared around the corner of the store. Enjolras tagged after her, down a bright alley and around several blocks, mapping the route in his mind. She finally stopped at an inconspicuous yellow house.

"You're in," she said. Her eyes flickered to his. "That means that you're_ in_. No backing out."

Syleen unlocked the door and led Enjolras through the house. The house was empty; it had no furniture or decoration apart from worn blinds fastened securely over each window. At the back of the house, she opened a door and they descended a narrow stairwell. The smell greeted Enjolras first – a dampness joined with the sweet stink of pot. The basement was a small space crowded with the members of the _Croisade de la Justice_ hunched over rough wooden tables stacked with an assortment of boxes and cases. Enjolras' breath caught in his throat. Several cases lay open, guns nestled within their black cushion.

"Some protest," Enjolras muttered.

Albin glanced up first in response, rushing to meet them at the foot of the stairs, balancing a lit joint between his fingers. "What the hell is he doing here?"

Syleen pulled Albin aside, whispering furiously into his ear. Enjolras studied the rest of the group, nodding slightly to Hugues when their eyes met. His chin sported a long red scar. The other man's eyes wandered over Enjolras' face, surveying the damage, before turning away. Nicolas watched Enjolras intently, looking elsewhere when Enjolras caught him staring.

Syleen and Albin returned to Enjolras' side. "Just gotta give you the old pat-down." Albin frisked Enjolras thoroughly, taking his phone. "Lot of messages from a Combeferre." Albin grinned facetiously. "That your boyfriend, pretty boy?" He scrolled through the phone. "Looks like he really wants to know where you are. Want me to tell him to plan for another night?"

Enjolras disregarded the taunts, nodding to the tables. "What's all of this for?"

Albin's fist landed squarely on the bruise across his jaw line. Enjolras suppressed a cry of pain as he staggered backwards. When he had recovered his balance, he lunged at Albin, but was grabbed from behind and pinned to the floor, a heavy knee pressed into his back. He squirmed futilely; he could not see who was holding him but they had him secured.

"Been waiting to do that." Albin knelt down by Enjolras' head, stroking his blond curls mockingly. "You don't ask questions." He fell silent for a moment, and then continued as if he was talking to a child. "I've been watching you. You're a wild card, but you're going to play by our rules now."

"And what are those?" Enjolras groaned as Albin's boot unexpectedly met his side. He willed his tears away, straining to glare defiantly at his assailant.

"I said no questions." Albin motioned roughly to someone beyond Enjolras' vision. "Secure him."

...

"Something doesn't add up here," Combeferre pushed his glasses up and fumbled frantically through the papers spread out in front of him.

"There's a lot that doesn't add up here," Courfeyrac groaned. He was sprawled upside-down on Combeferre's couch, staring emptily at a packet of figures that Combeferre had given him. "Like why I'm here. And not at the bar. Or with some lovely lady . . . Hell, a night listening to Jehan reciting poetry while wrapped up in his drapes would be more exciting than this."

Combeferre rushed to his side, ignoring his running commentary. "The tuition hikes . . . Where is that money going?"

Courfeyrac sighed dramatically. "The new housing."

Combeferre shook his head. "That's what the administration told us. But I've just spent hours tearing apart the housing budget plan. All of the money is being taken from foundation funds, private donors, and loans. There is no mention of increased tuition."

Courfeyrac pulled himself up, resting his chin on Combeferre's shoulder to see the budget papers. "So, what? They lied to us again?"

Combeferre nodded. "I've gone through next's years published budget three times. There is some pretty convoluted math, but no record of where the extra tuition money is going."

"They must be hiding something," Courfeyrac added slowly. "Enjolras is going to be so happy. Which means I won't be able to have any fun for the next month. At least."

Combeferre sighed. "I've been calling him all day. He hasn't answered or texted back."

Courfeyrac winced. "Is he really that mad?"

"He's Enjolras," Combeferre shrugged.

Courfeyrac studied Combeferre closely. "You're really worried about him."

"I don't know what's going on with him. He's usually not this rash." Combeferre was interrupted by a loud knock on his door. He and Courfeyrac exchanged a questioning glance before Combeferre rose to open it. Grantaire pushed past him, stumbling into the center of the room.

"Where's Enjolras?" Grantaire demanded. He looked as though he hadn't slept in days. His dark hair was matted into greasy peaks. His eyes were heavy-lidded and bloodshot. He glared steadily at Combeferre.

Combeferre looked at Courfeyrac, who nodded slightly. "I don't know," he admitted.

"Something's wrong." Grantaire paced clumsily. "Why the hell don't you know where he is?"

"We're doing what we need to do; he's doing what he needs to do. And he knows what he's doing." Combeferre fought to believe himself.

"Bullshit."

"Are you _actually_ sober?" Grantaire shot an angry scowl at Courfeyrac. Courfeyrac settled back, caught off guard by the intensity etched in the other's face. When he spoke again, his voice was gentle. "Grantaire, if something was wrong, Enjolras would have reached out to us. Yes, he's a maddeningly stubborn bastard, but he knows when he needs us. We know him."

"You _don't_ understand!" Grantaire shouted. "You don't understand what it's like to have the people you love treat you like shit. To have everyone tell you that you're wrong. To feel like you've made the biggest mistake, that you've ruined everything. I know what it's like. I know what he needs."

Grantaire closed his eyes. He could see Enjolras' face, tight with anger, as clearly as if he were standing in front of him. "Fuck it," he resigned. "I'm going to find him."

Grantaire stormed out of the apartment, leaving Combeferre and Courfeyrac gaping after him.


	8. Chapter 8

He didn't know how long he had been there. Realistically, it had probably only been a few hours, but it felt like an eternity. He was in darkness, with only a thin strip of light stretching below the door across the floor. It was not a large room – probably a closet. Dusty. Empty. His hands were zip-tied behind him and his body ached with exhaustion and pain.

Enjolras tipped his head back and released a deep breath. He was confused and torn. On one hand, he recognized that Combeferre was right. He had made a mistake, and he was in over his head. On the other, he was still curious about what the _Croisade _was doing. He was still attracted to their radical intensity; he had to know what they had planned. He had to be a part of it.

The door opened, flooding the closet with light. Syleen knelt next to Enjolras, searching his face anxiously for any trace of how he was feeling. He leveled a steady, blank stare in return.

"I'm sorry it turned out this way," Syleen cooed. She leaned in to him, trailing a finger over his cracked and bloody lips. "Enjolras, I didn't want this to happen. Albin. . . I'm sorry about him. I truly am." She hesitated, unable to read Enjolras' unwavering gaze. "Anyway. I was sent to let you know you'll be leaving soon."

"Where am I going?" Enjolras asked.

Syleen opened her mouth, as if she wanted to answer, but instead she looked away, saying: "They'll be in for you in a minute."

Enjolras' stomach twisted as she closed the door behind her. _Left in the dark_, Enjolras thought bitterly. _Literally and figuratively. _He hated feeling powerless, not knowing what was going to happen. His mind wandered back to the guns he had seen on the table. Combeferre's words ran through his mind: "group of environmental terrorists."

Enjolras rarely thought about death. It was inevitable and, thus, unthreatening. But, now, a cold shiver ran up his spine. He had never fully trusted Albin and, now, he was beginning to see why. The reality of his situation suddenly hit him: he was a hostage.

…

A pair of hands roughly tore the blindfold from Enjolras' eyes. He found himself in the backseat of a car in the middle of nowhere. The horizon was a blood-red smear fading into the black sphere of dusk. The tall skeletons of a series of towers rose strangely against the barren vastness. Enjolras glanced uncertainly at Hugues, who blocked the open door of the car. Beyond him a small caravan of cars screeched to a stop amidst a cloud of dust. Enjolras watched the _Croisade _pile out of the cars and gather into small clumps, heads bent together in conference. His heart skipped as they turned and started toward him. Although he could not see Albin's face in the dying light, he could feel his steady stare fixed on him.

"Out." Enjolras followed Hugues' command as the _Croisade _reached them.

"Know where you are?" Enjolras shook his head, returning Albin's relentless stare. "Allow me to enlighten you." Albin swept his arm in a smooth arc around his body, directing Enjolras' vision to the surrounding landscape. "You are standing in one of France's few remaining wetlands. We're losing this kind of biodiversity faster than it can be recovered. It's a damn shame; people seriously believe that there are no repercussions for their greed."

Enjolras nodded at the towers. "So who invited civilization?"

Albin's jaw tightened. "Just goes to show there is no good left in the world."

Enjolras rolled his eyes at the histrionics. "Do you really believe that?" Enjolras pressed, noting that, while Albin had skirted his question, he was addressing him for the first time as if he were an equal.

"Look around you. Man is vile."

"No," Enjolras countered. "Man is good. Oppression is vile, and tyranny the poison of society."

"Man is good," Albin scoffed. "So tell me: What is man's responsibility? Where is the accountability for his actions?"

"Man's only responsibility is to be free. His accountability comes in respecting the freedom of his fellow man."

Albin studied Enjolras incredulously. "Maybe he was right about you," he mused.

Enjolras bristled in self-defense; the conversation was clearly over. "What are you talking about?"

Albin ignored the question, turning to the rest of the _Croisade_. "Come. It's going to be dark soon. We need to finish this." When he spoke to Enjolras again, his voice assumed its customary condescending scorn. "Do you know what those towers are to be? I'm sure you could figure it out, but I really don't have the time for your bumbling. The university has been working on a housing project for years, but it only recently has begun construction."

Behind Albin, the _Croisade _bustled with activity, sliding their hands into thick gloves that stretched to their elbows, passing unmarked square packages stained with dark, wet patches, and pointing deliberately to the towers.

"There are contracts between men that are broken," Albin continued. "But far more tragic is when the unwritten contract between man and Nature is broken."

Half of the _Croisade_ trudged toward the tower with the packages, becoming silhouettes against the horizon. Someone handed Albin a large club. There was a sharp hiss, a spark of light, and the tip of the club was suddenly engulfed in flame. Torch after torch was lit, evolving instantly from weak licks of fire into angry blazes, until the remaining members of the _Croisade_ stood silently in a crescent of heat and light. Enjolras searched their faces for confirmation of the dread slowly forming in his mind.

The group who had disappeared into wetlands began to trickle back. They were now empty-handed and headed straight to the cars, avoiding the crescent of flame. One figure paused, calling: "Albin. All clear." Albin nodded once and the man moved on. Enjolras caught a slight whiff of gasoline. Confirmation. He grabbed Albin's arm.

"You don't have to do this."

Albin pulled away. "We do."

"This is dangerous; there is no way to control the flame. People could get hurt." Enjolras reached for Albin again as he started toward the towers. "Albin, go to the university board. They're fucking idiots but you can't do this."

Albin pushed him back sharply. "We have tried to be diplomatic. They just went right behind our backs. They're going to get our message now, loud and clear."

"Albin!" He yelled after the group advancing through the muddy grass. They ignored him. "This is senseless!" Enjolras watched the retreating figures helplessly. "God!" He punched the car next to him in frustration. Hugues stepped closer in warning. Enjolras slumped against the car in surrender, his breath ragged with anger.

A line of fire crawled across the field, a solitary blur of yellow-orange movement. It seethed quietly before suddenly erupting – flames stretched toward the sky with reaching and retreating fingers, growing bigger and bigger. The blaze lit the field, illuminating the _Croisade _sprinting back to the cars, the clumsy and frantic flight of disturbed ground-nesting birds. The sharp crackling of the fire was accompanied with the rustling murmur of small rodents and snakes in the grasses. By now, the towers were swallowed in the flames. The _Croisade_ had just made it to the edge of the field. Most were scurrying on to the cars, already revved to drive away.

Albin stopped in front of Hugues and Enjolras. "Go," he instructed Hugues. The man did not wait, turning immediately. Albin leveled his gaze on Enjolras. He stood in stark contrast to the fiery background. His face was cold and composed, emotionless. In a single graceful moment, he swung an arm from around his back. Enjolras did not notice the rod clenched in his fist until it was too late. He heard the sickening crash as the rod smashed into his skull. A sharp, cold pain pierced the side of his head before shooting through his entire body. He dropped to his knees as everything around him began to fade into a blur.

There was heat. Brightness. The thick smell of smoke. A deep shout. Two shadows… dancing.

Then, nothing.


	9. Chapter 9

"Mr. Prouix?" The secretary peered nervously over her glasses at the man slouched in the lounge chairs. "Dr. Guillaume will see you now." She scurried ahead of him, a clipboard balanced against her side, chirping, "You're very fortunate. He usually doesn't see anyone without an appointment, but once I passed on your name and _rather_ cryptic message, he told me to send you right in. You must have some kind of important connection with him…?"

He ignored her inquisitive chatter, slipping by her when she opened the office door. Dr. Guillaume glanced up briefly before returning his attention to a document on his desk. The door clicked almost imperceptibly, but both remained silent until the snap of the secretary's heels faded down the hall.

Dr. Guillaume spoke first. "You burned my buildings."

"'Sure you want to talk about contractual breaches?"

Dr. Guillaume looked up. "Take a seat, Albin."

Albin crossed his arms. "I'd rather stand."

They stared at each other for a minute, passing disdain through narrowed eyes. Dr. Guillaume broke the silent tension, sighing deeply. "The press is requesting a statement. You've put us on the defense."

Albin sneered at him. "You violated our agreement."

"I can have you all arrested," Dr. Guillaume hissed. "I don't need to protect you."

Albin leapt forward with a single fluid movement, leaning menacingly over the president's desk. "We both know that's not true. Unless, of course, you want to share a cell."

Dr. Guillaume settled back against the firm leather of his chair, considering the unflinching young man in front of him. Of course he was furious. Dr. Guillaume had anticipated Albin's anger but not the destruction. He should have known: The _Croisade _was volatile. Unreasonable.

Yet he had not expected this backlash. Perhaps because he was accustomed to control. When he was offered the position as university president fifteen years earlier, Dr. Guillaume was young. He was qualified, but hesitant. The previous president was seasoned and respected; Dr. Guillaume had just finished his fourth year, albeit successful, as a dean at a small college. The hiring committee cited his strong work ethic and uncanny ability to make change happen, yet the university community was dubious. But he had proved himself, becoming a true force of power and authority.

He felt it all slipping away from him with this man standing in front of him.

"So where does this leave us?" He finally asked.

"I would say that we're even, but I'm actually one step ahead." Dr. Guillaume leaned forward involuntarily. He had quickly learned that Albin was of few words and that these words were important. "Enjolras was there. We can get them on this."

"How?"

"The original plan was to knock him out and call the cops. Get him at the scene, but a couple of his friends showed up. We have them now. All we have to do is plant some evidence to tie them to the fire."

Dr. Guillaume could not hide his pleasure. "Excellent! When will this be cleared up?"

"By the end of the week." Albin turned to leave.

Dr. Guillaume frowned. "The sooner the better. I'm operating with a tight window here. The board is on my back for answers, and I don't want to talk to any more cops." He paused, irritated that Albin had his back to him. "I knew it was you as soon as I heard about it. You're lucky that I didn't call you out when I first heard the news."

Albin laughed, a thin and terrible warbling, and glanced back at the older man. "Empty, empty threats. Don't forget: We know your dirty secret."

Dr. Guillaume paled as the door shut, leaving him alone in the room.

…..

"I have to stop waking up like this," Enjolras groaned. His head pounded mercilessly and pain rocketed through his body anytime he moved. Again, his hands were bound and he was in darkness.

"Apollo!" Enjolras' head jerked when he heard the familiar voice, resulting in a stab of pain.

"…Grantaire?" He did not believe his ears.

"Oh, God! Apollo! You're alive!" Grantaire choked back a sob.

Enjolras rolled his eyes. "Of course I'm alive," he snapped.

"He's been crying for hours, although it's probably mostly due to withdrawal," a rough voice added.

"Bahorel!" Enjolras' rush of relief was quickly replaced with worry. "Who else is here?"

"Just us," Bahorel replied. "And the _Croisade _chick. But she's been asleep for hours. Or maybe _she's _dead. How're you feeling?"

_Syleen. _Enjolras' stomach dropped sharply. "Uh, fine."

"Really? Because you looked like shit when I last saw you." Bahorel squinted through the darkness, wishing he could see if his leader was as bloody and bruised as he remembered. "What do you remember?"

Enjolras closed his eyes. It hurt to think. "Fire."

Bahorel laughed, loud and hearty. "That's pretty much everything."

"What happened?" Enjolras asked. "How did they get you?"

"Oh, they didn't _get_ us," Bahorel bellowed. "_We _got them!"

"I knew something was wrong, Apollo! I knew it!" Grantaire's voice faded into desperate, shaky sobs.

Bahorel resumed the story. "R came to me a few days back, asking if I had any connections to the _Croisade. _I had a couple, ex-members who joined for the glory and the guns. They got us in contact to that little songbird. It was easy to track her down and once we found her, it was even easier to get her to spill. By the time we got to the field, the fire was live. R saw Albin knock you over and went fucking ballistic. It wasn't hard for him to pin R; he hasn't eaten or slept for days. And that includes alcohol. By then, others had seen us and came over. Last thing I remember, we were being held to the ground – except for you because you were fucking out– and then we woke up here. Wherever here is."

Enjolras could hear his grin when he spoke again. "It was hardly a fair fight, but I got a few good slugs in."

"Well, good for you," Enjolras fought to hide the joy and hope that welled up inexplicably inside of him with the presence of his friends. "Now you're in the same damn mess that I'm in."

"You're welcome, Enjolras. Anytime, _buddy_," Bahorel spat sullenly. Enjolras closed his eyes; he couldn't deal with his friends' needs now. He couldn't think. Couldn't remember what it felt like to not feel pain.

…..

The door to the Musain burst open. The Amis turned as a collective body to see Combeferre stumbling through the maze of tables and chairs. Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow as he studied his friend. Combeferre's clothes were wrinkled and awkwardly cuffed, a definite sign that he had worn them for at least two days. His eyes sank into puffy bags, and his hair stuck out all over his head.

"It was all a lie!" Combeferre yelled. He waved a folder over his head. "All a lie!"

Courfeyrac shot a glance around the café. "I can't be seen with you like this." Combeferre was stunned into silence. Courfeyrac continued, "You're a mess, and I have a reputation."

Combeferre pushed the folder into Courfeyrac's chest. "This is about Enjolras. Can you _please_ be serious for one minute? Just one minute."

Courfeyrac looked around again before sighing and opening the folder. He scanned the contents. "These are the same documents Enjolras showed us before. The ones from the _Croisade_."

"Not exactly," Combeferre corrected, passing the folder around to the rest of the Amis.

"What the hell are you talking about, Ferre?"

"It's the same information," Combeferre began, "but I made them."

"You're not making any sense," Feuilly said.

Combeferre clapped his hands together impatiently. "Okay. I know that Enjolras said that we shouldn't pursue the documents, but something about them just wasn't sitting right with me. So I went and talked to one of the campus technicians, and I was being discreet, but it was still so obvious that it was impossible for emails to be routed. I mean, he keeps the server running, and he told me that he would be able to tell if there was any disruption in the flow of the technology. So, I started looking into everything else, and it's all fabricated. All of it. All of the documents."

"Except the grocery list, probably," Bossuet added dismally.

"Why would they put so much effort into this? Especially if they knew that it wouldn't hold up?" Courfeyrac asked.

Combeferre shook his head darkly. "The better question is why did Enjolras believe them? And where is he now?"


End file.
